Laboratory Cow

A man’s body is dropped into a tentacle pit, the better to harvest magical reagents from him.

—

The tentacles are inescapable. Doctor Jones had dropped him right into the pit and they’d swarmed up to meet him and drag him inside, half a dozen colonies fighting one another to slide inside him, to mark him all over. He can feel different thick tentacles wrestling and trying to fight past one another to get into his pussy, into his ass, and he can feel them stretching him open. He’s soaked with sweat and gasping, squirming, and he feels like his mind is gonna just crack – his cunt aches from how many times he’s orgasmed since the doc had dropped him into place, and his skin is sensitive all over.

“Please,” he whines, struggling helplessly to pull his hands free, to try to push himself out or climb out from the pit, but there’s no point – any time he manages to untangle one of his limbs from the writhing mass of tendrils knotted and overlapping around him, he can barely lift it two inches before it’s dragged back under.

And the eggs are heavy.

He hadn’t even realized, when Jones had first eased him into place, that that was what they’d do, that each of them were fighting not just to bury their tentacles deep inside him where it’s wet and tight and their thrusts and movements will make him come again and again and again, until he feels like he’s gonna go blind or melt into a puddy of goo, but because they’re fighting over the real estate, acting on the urge to mate, to propagate themselves.

Each egg is fat and rough all over, rubbing against the other eggs already stuffed inside him, and he can’t see it, but he knows that his belly is fat and heavy with them, stuffed full and rounded out. He can feel the tentacles on the outside of his body pressing against the stretched-taut flesh, and more than that, pressing up against the tits they’ve made him grow. He was flat-chested, once, but not anymore – now his tits are round and full and they ache, made to grow huge and heavy for the fresh tentacles to feed from, to suckle on.

It’s a good apothecarial agent, Doc Jones says.

“Pleaaase,” Lars wails again, and Jones ignores him, squeezing harder on the thick bud of his swollen nipple and pulling down hard on it, milking him roughly and making him sob and fidget and try to get away, but it just pushes him into more of the tentacles and makes the eggs rub and click against one another. Jones squeezes down hard on his tit, putting pressure on it to force out more of the milk, the thicker stuff in the back, and it’s not even white – it’s bright pink and glowing, and it isn’t just a release of pressure as it’s squeezed out of him, but it tingles, makes his chest throb.

He shouts as he comes again, this orgasm rocking roughly through his body, and he barely feels like he’s holding onto consciousness, feels himself almost going cross-eyed.

Doctor Jones hooks his tit up to a magical machine to painfully squeeze out the last of the milk, and lines up the bottle with his other tit to milk by hand.